


beautiful thing

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Keith is mentioned, M/M, Pre-Kerberos Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 15:26:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Shiro is strangely fond of the fact that in every alternate reality Keith can think up, he and Adam are always together."Or, the smallest possible glance into the lives of Shiro and Adam.





	beautiful thing

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me lord for what i must yaba daba doo..... this is cheesy as hell but its what they deserve
> 
> nothing is known of adam yet but that's ok. there will be more when he's more fleshed out probably. we make it work out here

“Beautiful things don’t grow,” Adam decides.

Shiro pushes his lead-heavy thumb against the desk, making a black smear on the wood. He rubs it out again with a clean finger and looks at Adam. Boys who are dark in the wrong places are not usually beautiful, but perhaps boys aren’t supposed to be beautiful in the first place, so Shiro tries to keep his head out of the wrong places.

“How come?” He asks. He feels like they should. That’s the point, isn’t it? For them to nurture until there’s more beautiful things, gardens of them. “Then nobody would plant flowers.”  

“A different type of growth,” Adam tells him.

They turn back to the lecturer. It’s this older man, wrinkled like construction paper in a kid’s fist, talking about calculus or precalculus or post-calculus or whatever the hell. Adam touches his pinky finger to Shiro’s dirty thumb, the one he’d rubbed against a pencil lead, and wipes all of it away.

He keeps his finger there the duration of the period, and it's electric. 

* * *

 

Their first kiss is not as much of a kiss as it is a touch against lips. Smartasses like Jordan Oliver in Shiro’s homeroom would say that it’s in the definition itself to _touch lips to kiss_ , but Shiro would also argue (rather, he’d lean over to Adam for a comeback then shout it loudly in Oliver’s general direction) that the word _affection_ is in _love_ , and—

Well, some people lie through their teeth about loving wives and husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends. _Lie_ is not in _love_ . Other people just aren’t _gentle_ or _soft_ in their affection, like that definition of that word says.

So when their lips touch before Shiro goes inside of his dorm to retreat after their tequila brunch, he tries not to pay it too much attention. He pauses, a hand braced against his doorframe, blinking blindly. 

Lie is not in _their_ love, at least.

He’s loved Adam since he could remember. When he was younger, still learning about love, he’d always found it ridiculous how sparsely couples on television used it—how little his friends use it, how Calum and Matt always wince when Shiro tries to throw out a ‘ _love you guys!_ ’—when good emotions—ones like love, he supposes—should be shared.

Shouldn’t they be shared?

He hears Adam tell him, _beautiful things don’t grow_ , and he keeps on staring. Doesn’t move forward to kiss him back, or touch him, or anything else that could be related to those two things. Adam stares back, almost hopeful, tongue darting to brush against his bottom lip, hanging open. Adam’s mouth is always hanging open a little, and his eyes are always wide. Only larger because of the glasses. Like he’s trying to absorb as much of the Earth as he can.

Shiro likes agreeing with Adam because it means he’ll smile and tilt his head in that puppy way and say _you know I’m always right_ , which is, to his credit, usually true. Adam’s usually right.

This is Shiro’s excuse for not kissing him back. Beautiful things shouldn’t grow.

“Sorry,” Adam says suddenly, sounding a little choked up. He really has such lovely eyes. Corkscrews for Shiro’s chest, right into the thick of his lungs. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Shiro’s mouth opens so he can say ‘it’s okay’, but no sound comes out. He makes this embarrassing squealing noise instead of giving a worthwhile, human reply, and he kind of wants to bury his head between his legs, because he’s never thought of Adam like that, barely thought of any person like that.

Person. Girl. _No_ , his mind says, but he’s not sure if he can correct it. He’s seventeen.

His thoughts are purely onomatopoeic. 

Adam walks backwards, trips on something invisible. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says quickly, and brushes back a fistful of lovely, lovely brown hair. He doesn’t like to take care of it because he doesn’t like to look pretentious, and Shiro loves reminding him how pretentious he sounds in the process.

His dorm is a few doors down. When they come back from lessons or tequila brunches or midnight flight simulator runs he runs his hand down the doorframes, knocks on every black plastic doorway with a usually-banged-up fist for good luck, for well wishes. Garrison boys peek their heads through and wish him a good night and his dimples reiterate.

He doesn’t run his hand down today. He walks with his head down.

* * *

 

The next morning, Shiro wakes up with a stomach-ache, one of the bad ones where it’s just the fireworks setting off pains into his head and ears and nose (seriously, it wants to mess with his sinuses?). His sinuses are his first worry, and then it’s Adam (fuck), and then it’s class.

He shoves his pillow over his head and tries to drown out the rhythmic thumping. He hates hearing the sound of his own body working because it just reminds him that his mind, at all times, is not. “G’morning, Shirogane,” his roommate Marshall calls, then audibly stops in his tracks. “Woah, you good, bro? Usually you’re up before me.”

“I’m going to die,” Shiro says plainly, because he is.

The school nurse prescribes bed rest and a day of missing classes. She gives him meds and tells him to get someone to get him his notes, and because Shiro has three and a half friends on a good day, he texts all of them and discovers that Adam is the only fucking one that replies (not that he needed any more confirmation that Jordan Oliver _isn’t_ his friend).

He skips class to come visit him in his room, and Shiro finds it strangely kind how willing he is to risk the sickness. If it's contagious. He hopes, above all, that his thoughts are not part of it. It’s the drugs, but Adam kind of looks like an angel as he floats down next to Shiro’s bed and pushes back a head of his sweaty bangs, watching him wince. “Sorry,” he whispers, and waves a hand of notes. “I come bearing gifts.”  
  
“You’re a gift,” Shiro mumbles, and then, because of everything, “Sorry.”  
  
Adam deflates a little. “Don’t say sorry, Takashi. I shouldn’t have—”  
  
Adam talks with his hands, articulates with fingers and skin with his mouth as the fast-paced soundtrack. The only reason they became friends was because Shiro’s the only one who can keep up with the rate of his thoughts. And because he talks with his hands, when one falls down into Shiro’s, he takes it.

He gulps. “Takas—”  
  
He squeezes tighter. “You were wrong,” he whispers, still a little drugged up. “I think beautiful things grow.”  
  
“Oh, please,” Adam whispers, and clutches even tighter, until their hands feel like one. “I meant that—they shouldn’t.”   
  
“You said they don’t.”   
  
A smile curves his lips. “Then I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong.” 

* * *

 

Their beautiful thing grows into this:

When they graduate from the Garrison—Shiro’s grandmother flying in from Japan, Adam’s parents kissing him on the cheek and taking as many pictures as they can of the two of them, arms locked around each other and cheesy smiles looking down at their degrees—they get a little flat a bit close to it, so they can take jobs they were immediately offered and Shiro can look after Keith (who still claims he doesn’t need looking after).  
  
Adam is usually the one to denounce this point, and because it’s Adam, Keith always complies. Kind of meekly, too, like he’s embarrassed he even brought up Shiro and Adam starting a life together away somewhere. Shiro is strangely fond of the fact that in every alternate reality Keith can think up, he and Adam are always together.

They go to the grocery every Sunday because it’s an hour away and stock up on salt and vinegar chips for Keith and chocolate-covered peanuts for Adam, and do the laundry on Tuesdays so their comforter is warm for X-Files reruns on the couch. (Adam says he hates it, but if he hated it so much, why would he hum the theme when he looks for the spatula to make Shiro eggs when he comes home late from the Garrison?)

“Keith was weirdly pissy today,” Shiro updates him, legs tucked up on the counter dramatically. He’s just caught Adam humming the theme—it's not just a one-time thing—and handed him the spatula smugly, so now he’s blushing and making eggs in his tracksuit bottoms and Shiro’s Garrison hoodie.

“He’s always pissy.”  
  
“No, he was like,” Shiro starts, and opens a pack of chocolate-covered peanuts. “He doesn’t usually complain, and he was all about it when we talked. Something about some kid that won’t leave him alone? Claims they’re bitter enemies? Lance, or something.”   
  
“We should have done that,” Adam comments. He salts the eggs professionally and Shiro watches fondly. “Pretended to hate each other when, in reality, I was in love with you for a year.”   
  
“Just a year?” Shiro asks.

Adam rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to indulge you. It always makes you _swoon_ .” He waves his hand—the one holding the spatula—and a bit of egg flies into the bit of counter next to Shiro’s obnoxiously large body. He frowns and plucks it up toward himself to eat.   
  
“If I recall correctly,” Shiro says in a dignified tone, “The first time you made me swoon, I was half dead.”   
  
“You know,” Adam says thoughtfully, “For a while, I thought I’d killed you. I thought I got you sick by pecking you on the lips.”   
  
“Baby,” Shiro says. “Some things are better left unsaid.”   
  
Adam kisses him and then slaps him lightly on the cheek, barely moving his head. “Keep bullying me and I’ll remind you who’s making these eggs,” he says, tilting his nose up to the ceiling and leaning sideways, lowering his raspy voice into a dramaticized whisper. “Me. _I’m making the eggs._ ”   
  
Shiro laughs and tugs him closer to kiss him again, and then Adam discovers that when he lets the eggs cook for more than his regularly designated time, they actually end up tastier. He calls it Shiro's fault because they're too busy kissing, and he gladly takes the blame. They share a fork and a plate like any disgusting couple, and when they finish the plate, Shiro hops off of the counter to clean it.

Adam leans on his shoulder to watch him rinse the plate, lips boredly pressed to his neck. His glasses press uncomfortably into his skin. He’s warm and rough like forgotten blanketing. “We should go on a trip,” he says suddenly. “Or something. I don’t know. Somewhere warm and tropical on Earth—or you could, you know, hijack the ship and take me to Kerberos instead of the Holts. We’ll leave water out for Keith and everything.”  
  
Shiro laughs and turns around, kisses him. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

 

These are the people who send Shiro and Matt and Sam Holt off on their Kerberos mission:

  
1\. Keith, standing front and center, waving and pretending like he hadn’t cried his guts out into Shiro’s shirt a few minutes prior. (Keith is very good at pretending not to have cried.)

2\. A classroom full of peeking children who keep on poking their heads out of the windows so Shiro can motion for them to _get the fuck down_.

3\. Commander Iverson, because he’s generally an omniscient being.

4\. A bunch of other scientists making sure they don’t die.

5\. Adam.

Shiro’s about to step into his ship, but then he’s years back, and he feels the magnetic pull of Adam’s arms. Their goodbye isn’t enough—it’s never enough. So he turns around and sends an apologetic wave to the annoyed-looking scientists and pulls off his helmet and takes a long stride over to Adam, gathering him in his arms again.

“Oh, you big baby,” Adam sniffles, but clutches him just as tight. When they pull away so Shiro can kiss him—then his cheeks and his nose and his neck and accidentally his glasses—he wipes away a stray tear, holding his face close. “Don’t start again. I’m so proud of you—Takashi, come on, stay with me—and I’m going to count down the days you come back and make sure everyone is okay, that your family’s okay that Keith is okay that all of these kids are okay, and you’re going to come back and we’re going to have a life, okay? It’s going to be beautiful. It’ll be a beautiful thing.”  
  
“You used to say they don’t g—”   
  
“Jesus, don’t start,” Adam says, and laughs a little. “I was a dumb teenager, okay? Beautiful things _deserve_ to grow and they do because they’re good, and you’re a good thing, Takashi, and you’re going to grow for me, so please, we’re holding everything up, and I—I love you.”   
  
“I love you too,” Shiro says. He’s never meant it more in his life.

“Here is another good thing,” Adam hums. He brushes his thumb over Shiro’s bottom lip. “Goodbye. Because it means a hello soon and that’s what’s going to happen, okay? I love you. See you soon.”  
  
“Okay, yes,” Shiro just repeats, jittery. He is a pilot. He can do this. He can do this for everyone and most of all himself, because as an extension of himself, he’ll do it for Adam. “Bye—goodbye. I love you.”   
  
And he does—how Shiro loves him.   
  


  



End file.
